Excuse me while I whip this out.

Howdy pardners.  Today’s blog is brought to you by Elderflower Edinburgh Gin.  I have thoughtfully broken this bad-boy up into loving sections again; as always, feel free to only read what appeals to you (honestly, if you stopped at the title, I wouldn’t be offended)(as long as you never mention it to me).

Reflections on Places I’ve Been

This past week* was the third year anniversary of the Tohoku Earthquake/Tsunami.  You refer to the name of the event depending on what part of Japan you lived in when it happened; if you were in Tokyo, the surrounding prefectures, or more western, then you refer to it as the earthquake.  If you were more eastern Japan, you refer to it as the tsunami.  I recently came across my old Japan blog, and you can read this post to find out about my experiences of that day.**  If you go, warning: that blog is a lot more dry (oh dear; I realized much later that this could be taken as a tsunami pun; IT IS NOT A TSUNAMI PUN).  Ironically, it was writing about the earthquake that led me to quit that blog, but that’s another story for another time. ***

[*This goes to show you how bad my lag time is between writing and posting.
**Here’s a little Japanese lesson for you: as you already know the Japanese for tsunami, the word for earthquake is “jishin” (地震).  This can get confusing though, as the word for confidence is also “jishin” (自信).  One I heard because Japan has too many of them, and the other because many Japanese people have too little of it (and they like to remind you of both those facts).
***On St. Patrick’s Day, there was apparently an earthquake in California, according to every single person on my FB newsfeed who lives in CA.  I aw a video of the news program that was filming as it hit, and let me tell you, fellow Californians: I’m not impressed by what gets you riled up.  If it causes a massive tsunami, destroys buildings, creates a nuclear meltdown– or heck; just goes on for longer than a minute, then you can take to the newsfeed in alarm.  Earthquakes in CA never bothered me.  After 3/11, I experienced phantom aftershocks for at least six months after the incident.  I would feel the shaking, and I would have to glance around my apartment to determine if anything else was moving.
Also, since writing this, there has been a slightly larger earthquake in CA, which is similar in size to what I felt (as the size gets smaller as it moves away from the epicenter), but from what I’ve been told, it was much shorter in duration.]

Relating to Places I’ve Been Cyber-wise

Speaking of traumatizing…my flatmate recently signed me up for Tinder.  Tinder has been an ongoing debate between us since I found out he was on it; I’m not really into the idea of using technology to meet people, but he would swear it wasn’t all about hooking up (sure; for him it is, but he insists it’s not that way for everyone).  He really started pushing it after I told him about my rejection fears after…the incident (if you don’t know, don’t get excited; it’s nothing wild), as well as when I told him I’m not that confident around guys.   Last Friday he insisted that I go get my iPad so that he could sign me up.  (The main reason I think he wanted me to sign up was so I would stop asking him how Grinder is going).  I acquiesced, and soon became a member of the “swipe to like” community.  Sure, I had my doubts–it seemed shallow, tedious, and a bit sad (and I also have a paranoia that I am going to run into all these people that I see on the app), but he assured me everyone was doing it, and you all know how much I love to be peer pressured.  (I also think that if you are going to pass judgment on something, you should try it first.  Unless it’s something illegal, like murder.  You don’t have to try out murder before passing a judgment on it).

What followed were some very bizarre coincidences; if I believed in fate, this would be the time when I would say it was sticking its hand in (fortunately I don’t, and can write it off with a light hearted guffaw).  On Friday night, I went out with some course mates; before going out, we did the obligatory groups shots (I re-read this and figured I should clarify: pictures, not alcohol).  One of the girls posted the pics on her page.  Saturday, I start actually browsing Tinder; due to my guilt about the shallow judgement of human beings that Tinder forces on you, I swipe “like” on the majority of pictures (except if the guys had beards.  I’ve got to draw the line somewhere).  If the other person has swiped “like” on your pics as well, then you are matched and can message each other (because of my slowness to play the “game”, so to speak, the program always shows me right away if I’ve been matched with someone–which I always am.  It’s a little tiresome, actually; apparently everyone has the same Tinder guilt).*

So I get this guy who I almost–almost–reject, because he was just a bit older than I would have liked.  But I don’t, because he’s not beardy, and I get a message from him saying that he saw my pictures on a friend’s newsfeed earlier that day, and had messaged her to ask if she would introduce us.**  We message a bit.  Monday morning, I head to the library–early enough that I don’t feel like getting properly ready, so I just toss on some sunglasses.  I get to the top of the hill, and I see this fellow on the other side of the street who looks eerily similar to my Tinder buddy.  I immediately look away, as if I never noticed him in the first place.  I write it off to my paranoia, until later that night I get a message from the guy asking if I was wearing fancy sunglasses that morning.  Apparently, he is still interested in meeting me even after seeing me in that state, so he can’t be all that bad.

[*Did you like that subtle, faux-humble reference to the fact that I’m super Tinder popular?
**No offense to myself, but my first reaction was, “You saw this group of girls and decided it was ME you wanted to meet?!?”]

What is bad about Tinder is the amount of time some people want to put into it.  This is the problem that I think comes with the instantaneous communication ability that technology provides; what with texts, FB messages, emails, and all the other options, people expect a ridiculously small reply time.  If there is a discrepancy between the way people see communicative abilities, an awkward tension is created.  This often happens with me when I encounter people who see texting or FB chatting as equivalent to a face to face communication, along with all the mores of traditional communication applied to it.  That’s just too invasive and artificial for me, as well as too damn time-consuming.  Unless we are great friends, and I really like you, I don’t want to be messaging someone 20 times a day.  So yes, to summarize, I am already very bored with it.**

[*You’re probably wondering, “Do you have great friends who you don’t really like?”, and my answer is, “You’ve just got to be open to these sorts of possibilities.”
**I’m bored with it, but I’ve still been on a Tinder date.  Not with Mr. Coincidence**** either.  The anticipation leading up to these things is the worst; I guess I’m just really afraid of being tricked into dating someone (a fear I mentioned in a previous post).***
***Since I’ve started writing, the number of Tinder dates has increased, though I’ve pretty much stopped playing. (*)
****While this was true before, it’s not now.  Let’s just say I still don’t believe in fate.
(*)Except when I’m really bored.  And if you judge me for it, Mr./Mrs. Fantastic Flirt, good for you; you’re probably an excellent person.]

Things Not Related to Tinder

Gym time!  Recently, some friends of mine joined the gym, and have since been tricking me into joining them for tough workouts.  They were like, “Come join light yoga for seniors!” and I was like, “Perfect!  That sounds like it’s just around my skill level.”  Then I show up, and it turns out it’s a class called “Killer Kaosity: King Level.”  Okay; so it was boxing.   But I’m sure the result would have been the same.  Now some of the reasons I don’t like group lessons is because 1.) I’m not very graceful, 2.) they always seem to be done facing a wall of mirrors, and 3.) put 1 and 2 together and add witnesses.  I mean, I’ve tried Zumba before, and I’m pretty sure it’s Portuguese for “White middle class women aren’t exotic.”  I just become super-aware of how awkward I look, so I spend the whole class trying to avoid making eye contact with everyone in the room, including myself in the mirror.  But after my friends joined, and I chanced a brief monitor of their progress, I realized that most people look ridiculous as they are jumping around and bouncing their flabby bits.  So now, I spend the majority of class times just giggling to myself.*

[*Except for yoga.  You can’t giggle through yoga, because you’re supposed to be all calm and crap, and then if you’re doing something wrong, the instructor comes over and touches you until you get it right (not in a creeper way, but in a helper way, obvi).  Can you imagine how embarrassing it is to start giggling while your instructor is directing your sit bones?  Can you?  Can you?  If you can, then you will know how I feel when I started giggling as the instructor started directing my sit bones.*  Also, today in class, the girl next to me was attempting a shoulder stand pose, but she lost her shit** and kneed herself in the eye.  It took her awhile to regain her strength to move her leg, and so she just had to stay there, knee resting against her eye socket.  And that, ladies and gentlemen, is why you don’t giggle in yoga.]

I also went to a North American club activity recently.  I was doing really well in the mingling aspect until my American friend came over and told me that he is like a mollusk who says, “Hm, here’s a nice boat; I think I’ll settle in here for awhile.”  ALSO, this was the first time I’ve ever been ID’ed in a British bar.  And of course, before I headed out that evening, I thought, “You know, bringing a purse seems unnecessary.  Heck, even my wallet feels a bit too cumbersome.  Why don’t I just stick some bills in my pocket?  That’s good enough.”  Which meant that I didn’t have the necessary proof to purchase my beverage, and they shoo’ed me away from the bar, leaving me with a gaping mouth and a thirsty throat.  I went back to my group, where my friend/event organizer told me that the staff had even come around to the sitting area to check IDs.  A different girl offered to buy the drink for me, as if I was a sneaking teenager, and of course I said yes.  But as she went off, I felt a little worried, and so I ran back to my apartment to get my ID.  I came back and immediately headed for the bathroom (all that running around and excitement was a wee bit too much for me), where I was intercepted by a staff member who was like, “Oh, excuse me, but do you happen to have you ID on you?”  I answered that I had left it at the table, to which she replied, “Oh, okay, sorry; it must have been a different person then.”  THEY HAD A WATCH OUT FOR ME!  I felt like a juvenile delinquent on parole.

Things Related to Where I am

To make this post slightly more Brit-focused, let me bring up the topic of language again.  Brits often like to talk about how Americans making a mockery of English,*** which is just a rich example of collective selective memory (that’s a mouthful)****.  English–in the sense of both the people and the language–butcher other languages in the process of vernacular formation.  For example, Americans, how do you suppose Brits say “lieutenant”?  Oh, did you guess “lef-tenant”?  No, you didn’t, because that’s crazy.  I had a lecturer bring this difference up a couple of weeks ago, and I had no idea what word he was trying to get at.  Afterwards, when I’ve brought it up with Brits, they are always quick to say, “Well, that’s the correct way.”  And I’ll say, “Oh really?  And tell me, do you also say ‘in “lef” of’?”  If people bring up this sort of topic as a joke, I don’t mind–but when people say things like this seriously, it makes me question their perception and understanding of language development.*****  British English isn’t more correct than American English; as most languages are wont to do, they have developed/are in the process of developing in different directions as a result of geographical separation.

Also, considering how small the UK is, there are some major accent variations going on here.  So Brits, if you want to start correcting American English, why don’t you guys get your act together first???******
Also, thanks Gym for informing me that Star Jump = Jumping Jacks.  I was really thrilled to be doing a 4th grade exercise again.

[*No, yoga; you will never convince me that sit bones are real bones.
** OH GOD, NOT LITERALLY.
***Apparently, most Brits think they are being original when they bring up this old joke.
****That’s what she said.
*****From my Mac dictionary: “In the normal British pronunciation of lieutenant, the first syllable sounds like lef. In the standard U.S. pronunciation, the first syllable, in contrast, sounds like loo. It is difficult to explain where the f in the British pronunciation comes from. Probably, at some point before the 19th century, the u at the end of Old French lieu was read and pronounced as a v, and the v later became an f.”  I’m not clear on whether it refers to the British read of French, or the French pronunciation in general, but the French speakers I’ve asked pronounce it closer to the American style.
******JK.  Please don’t change a thing about the way you talk.  Even though Brits don’t like the way Americans speak, the feelings are not reciprocated.]

“A little time with you is all that I get”

Lovelies, lovelies, hello.  If you make it to this blog post, that’s because you went and read a little further than whatever blog I published (or will publish, really) after this, as I’m not publicizing this one.  When I post blogs on Facebook, my readership goes up…let’s see, I’m not very good with math, but I believe somewhere around…3,500% (mind you, that’s going up from 2 readers).  So only those who are really, really dedicated will make it here.

The reason I’m doing it this way is because this is where I will mention that blind “date” (hangout?), and I’m not sure what shape that’s going to take, and it’s probably best if no innocent bystanders are here to witness it.  Quite a few people I have met recently, or who I haven’t really talked to in years, have told me they read this–which I’m absolutely happy about, and all are welcome–but I do tend to get a bit ramble-y, and on occasion, hangry.  Oh my, I feel a rant coming on; I’ll suppress it (i.e. the opposite of what I do to my appetite)(or my ramblings).

The truth is I don’t have much to say about the event.  Like all the dates I’ve been on (hahahahahahahahahaha), it was fairly nice and friendly.  He was well-groomed, polite, a bit short; too beardy for my tastes (i.e. he had a beard in general.  I can’t take beards).  However, I’m not sure if I can call it a date.  Here is why:

1.) I don’t really want to.*
2.) It was coffee.  He didn’t pay, or even offer to pay.**
3.) I have to know something about a person to make it a date.  Otherwise it’s just a meet and greet.

*Why don’t I want to?  Because one of the people who “set us up” hasn’t talked to me in two years (due to distance, not falling out), and wasn’t really that great of friends with me at the time.  The other didn’t know anything about the guy.  So basically, the fact that we both live in Bristol and had a connection to this one guy was apparently enough for us to maybe fall in love.  I feel like that’s similar to saying, “Hey, I know you probably wear underpants, so even though I haven’t seen you in two years, and have no idea what size you are, or what style you like, I think this pair is probably good for you, because it is sold in the city you live in.”  I realized this is a terrible analogy, but take it or leave it.  Also, if they are the only underpants available to you, please take them.

I hope this doesn’t make me sound like I’m anti-dating.

**This is really tricky territory.  I don’t necessarily advocate for the guy always paying, but doing so the first time at least clears the air about what is going on.  Because if just going Dutch on coffee qualifies as a date, then I had a six-month relationship a few years back that I should have capitalized on.***  I recently read something by a guy who was all like, “I don’t believe in paying on a first date, because why should I shell out for someone I’m not even sure I’m interested in?” (that is not a direct quote; do not google it).  I’ll tell you why, dude: because almost every single lady I’ve talked to nixes the idea of a second date with a guy who didn’t offer to pay for the first (unless she asked him out)(jeez, dating is ridiculous).

***No, seriously; what was that about?

Speaking of underpants, I apparently don’t know what lady briefs are, because I bought some thinking they were like boy shorts, and they are actually better described as pants/sleeping bag combo.  Also, here is some fun Brit-US differences: women’s clothing goes up 2 sizes (that was fun to find out), while shoe size goes 2 sizes down (or something).  So while the number in the hanger makes me want to slightly cry myself to sleep, on the plus side*, for the first time in my adult years, I can trick myself into thinking I have almost lady-like feet proportions.

*See what I did thar?

Holy guacamole**.  I have no idea what I was actually going on about, or where the exact point of divergence was.  It was probably about that coffee occasion I had.  In the fear of being redundant, I really have very little to say about it.  I’m not a love at first sight (site?  for blind date occasions?) kind of gal, and it takes me a long time to warm up to a guy, so it was unlikely for anything promising to happen.  Sorry for all of you who were hoping I would stop being single***.  But not wanting to be single anymore doesn’t seem like a good enough reason to not be single anymore.  Call me old-fashioned, but I think you should go into a relationship because you really like the other person, not just because you like the idea of love.  I know this will shock a lot of people, but if it happens that I am single for the rest of my life, I could be happy with that.  And that’s not to say that I couldn’t be happy in a relationship; I could–but the truth is, none of us know what is going to happen tomorrow, so let’s not rest our happiness on conditionals.

**According to Kristina Germany (when I saw her last week), this was something I said a lot when she lived in CA.  JZ hadn’t heard me say it, but confirms “it sounds like the stupid sort of thing [I’d] say.”

***Also, there were a few people who found out about the BD solely from this blog, and yet were anxious to hear about how it went–which I find particularly strange, since I prefaced it last blog by saying I thought BDs were the worst things in the world.   Were you actually hoping for some kind gruesome story??  Now I’m sorry now I didn’t fulfill that end.

“I just wanted to say what Jill’s eyes were twinkling about.”

Spoken from the mouth of lokate(*), who is by far my favorite lokate in the world.

Before we really get started, here’s a picture of me in Amsterdam!

That’s a preview of next time (maybe).  You don’t get to hear about A’dam this time because my iPad decided to go tits up the day we arrived (not the day we left though, which will be part of the story, I’m sure).

So as you may or may know (how should I know what you know; I don’t know who you are), I went back to America for a little bit, and while I was there, lokate told me a very valuable story.  It was a story about dating, and this is the story she told me:

“i really like this guy.  and that wasn’t always the case with the guys i dated.  and i would talk to friends and be like, ‘you know how sometimes when you are dating someone, but you don’t really like them?’  and they would be like, ‘No, i don’t really think that’s how it’s supposed to be.’  and i realized they were right, you shouldn’t hate the person you are dating.”

(Story might actually be word for word.  Or not.  But definitely the gist.)

I think that’s pretty true.  This story is particularly valuable because I will soon be going on my first blind date ever.  The reason I’ve never gone on a blind date before is because they sound like the absolute worst things in the world, and I generally make a fool of myself enough in normal situations.  I hoped my friends loved me enough not to try and wrangle me into one during my lifetime (if they waited until I was dead, I guess that would be fine), but alas; their ignoble hearts have been exposed.  I imagine they will try to rationalize their actions by saying they don’t want me to die alone or something.  However, this is not my fear–my fear is that I will die in a plane crash, in which case I will be surrounded by loads of people.

But I was completely caught off guard by the blind date invitation (…thanks for the lack of warning, Potter), and due to belief that if someone has the courage to ask you out on a date, you should at least give it a try, I am now committed (also, he’s my friend’s cousin, so…).  Also, since I don’t know anything about the guy, I googled him, and I think he might actually be a genius, which makes me fairly confident that this will not end well.  Still, thanks to lokate, now I know that if I hate him, I probably shouldn’t hang out with him again.  So, if you have some really stellar blind date advice, let me know.  Like, should I wear my fancy knee pads?  Do you generally write down all your secrets beforehand in preparation to shout them out during awkward silences?  These are the valuable nuggets that I to make up for my pathetically empty dating knowledge.

Anyway, speaking of speaking, I want to share other valuable quotes and stories from America.  The first come from my grandpa.  To give you a little unnecessary context about the stories my grandpa tells, here is one he told me before I left for the UK the first time around.  I think he was trying to explain school in the good ol’ days.

“We had six hours of homework every night.  And we walked for 5 miles in the snow each way, just to save a nickel.  And I was working in the bowling alley setting up pins to 1 am every morning, so you know I wasn’t doing any homework.
(Pause for reflection)
It was probably the best school in the country, and there will probably never be another one like it.  But then they let in the blacks, and the girls, and the standards really went down.”

So remember, that’s what we’re working with.

When I came home for Christmas, my older sister suggested that we take my grandpa to the racetracks for opening day.  First off, the races started at 1, but they opened the park at 11, probably because the average age of customers is probably 87, and those folks take a long time getting from the gate to their seats.  My grandpa wanted to get there at 10:30.  We arrived at 11:30.  On the ride there, we drove past Azusa Pacific, my cousin’s university.  My grandpa asked if she was back in school, and my sister said she thought she had returned part-time, for 2 or 3 classes.  That’y when the fun began.

Grandpa: When I was going to law school, I was taking 10 classes at a time.
Me: That’s not really how you do it these days; it’s kind of impossible to take that many classes.  2-3 is pretty standard.
G: Well, I did 10 classes a day, from 6-10 pm while working full-time, and that was with 5 children.  And I did that for 15 years.
Me:  …you went to law school for 15 years???
F: Yup; from 1949 to 1959.

(Thank God he wasn’t studying math for all those years).*

The next quote comes from the mouth of a babe.  Or toddler.  Whatever.  I stayed in London JZ’s house (**) for a few days before I flew home for Christmas.  One of the days, we took his 3 y.o. niece to a pantomime show (***), and at the very end- right at the last curtain call- the fire alarm went off.  I started gathering up all the stuff, but the ushers were waving their hands about, saying, “Just leave everything!  Go!  GO!”  From my many experiences with fires (specifically forest fires; thanks high school!), when someone says go, I go.  So we went in the nice rainy weather outside.  I was looking through my things, and I remarked to JZ that I think I left my phone inside.  He said, “What, your crap phone?”  I told him it didn’t matter if it was crap, it was still my phone.  Ignoring this, he turned to his niece and said, “Ruby-chan, do you think the fire brigade will come?”  Ruby looks at him and says, “Yeah, the firemen will come, and they’ll find a crap phone!”

On the subject of JZ’s family and quotes, this year also provided a bit of vindication.  When I went to visit universities in the UK earlier last February, my mom asked me, “How far is London from England?”  I (mistakenly) told JZ, who in turn told his mom, and they both had a good laugh at dumb Americans.  However, when I visited London in November, we were talking about monarchs and their success when JZ’s mom very seriously argued, “The best queens have been women.”  Well…that’s accurate, to be fair (though I imagine RuPaul might have something to say about it).

Now, some really short quotes, sans context!  (J is not me, by the way).

J: There was a guy in my year who literally had a great pair of tits.
—-
O: So you smashed it.
J: I didn’t smash it, I just did everything I needed to do really well.
—
O: You sound like Elvis!…on the toilet, as he’s dying.

QUOTES FINITO! End part 1.

(Intermission) Erin wanted me to mention her in my blog, so here it is.  Erin’s one comment to me is always, “Your blog is too long!”  Think of my blog as a buffet; just because it’s all out there doesn’t mean you have to eat it all.  Pace yourself.  I will take no responsibility if you find yourself uncomfortably bloated and looking to vomit at the end.  Also, Erin: to keep you motivating, I am going to reference you two more times in this essay of a blog.  Also, I know how you get at a buffet; which means not only will you gorge yourself, but you’ll sneak some out in your pocket for later.

START PART 2: “Christmas!  OMG!  Santa!  I know him!” or also titled, “Little did we know…”

One weird quote (okay, I lied about the quote finito business) that came about was from my brother’s girlfriend.  My brother and his GF gave mini crossbows to people for the big day, and when I remarked that they looked particularly dangerous for a toy, his GF said, “It’s not a holiday without a trip to the ER!”  I thought that was pretty freaking bizarre, but now I look back at it as being oddly prescient.  (Cue dramatic BUM BUM BUM.)

Now, Christmas was exciting for two reasons (hopefully you caught a whiff that one direction is headed); both involved my brother and his…GF.  The first was Christmas morn at my mom’s, when his GF mentioned that she collects Hooters shirts.  My brother felt that Jesus’s birthday breakfast was a good time to announce that his GF’s boobs “were not, in fact, gifts from God.”  Fast-forward to my dad’s house, where my littlest sister and I were waiting on our parents to finish getting ready so we could all go to my aunt’s house (Christmas is a very busy day in our family).  My brother and his GF had gone back to their apartment to finish making a salad to take for the dinner.  However, a sudden phone call from the GF put us into hyper mode: my brother has sliced his finger with a mandolin (or as I like to call it, the kitchen guillotine.  Seriously, google image search “mandolin slicer accidents” to see what I mean).  We kept getting quick updates, but my favorite was when I heard my dad say, “Did it actually come off?” (Pause).  “How much?”  Still, it wasn’t enough off that we can say he’s “all right”, so he’s alright now.  Though he did lose the GF in the end, so there’s that…

START PART 3.
After last blog’s constant questioning shenanigans, I’ve decided you get one question–and I see you are going to waste it on the most mundane thing possible, but go ahead.  “Jazillion, did you make a new year’s resolution?”  The answer is “Of course, you collywobbler!”  Here are my New Year’s Resolutions:

1. I have decided to only read news from The Onion.  They seem to be the most consistent, after all.
2. Start the final wean from real pants to leggings.  And good news, everybody!  I got about 4 pairs of leggings for Christmas, which means I may never have to wear jeans again!!  Declaring jeans independence for 2015.
3. Going off the last resolution, and to just stay consistent with recent events in general, I have decided to embarrass myself in public as much as possible.  I have high hopes for keeping this one in anticipation of that blind date.

Speaking of New Years and Awkward Things, remember that NYE party I went to?  No?  Let me set the tone.  All week long I’d been slightly dreading NYE, primarily because the idea of staying up until midnight at a party sounded really exhausting (When did I get so old?!?), but also because I didn’t know what to do, and people kept asking me, and I was like, “I would love to stay in all night watching ‘The Twilight Zone’, but I don’t think that’s what you’re going for.”  Finally, Suzy(*!) and I decided to go to a block party in LA, so of course we ended up at the le Casa house party.  This wasn’t my first choice because 1.) I hadn’t really been invited and 2.) Those guys are hipsters.  While I love my friends who live at the house, I have a hard time with all their friends, because they are some of the most awkward people I know (as hipsters tend to be).  So basically, as soon as we walk into the backyard  (complete with bonfire), everyone turns and stares quizzically at you, as if you haven’t met each one of them about 50 times over the last 10 years (No, seriously, it has been that long or longer).

One of our friends (and some of our sort of friends) were standing in a circle near the front, so we quickly tried to blend in.  However, this group included a friend I had seen once in 3 years, so I immediately felt awkward, and blamed it on the wine bottle I was holding.  I went and set it down next to a small bucket filled with craft beers (I seemed to have been the only one to buy a $2 bottle of wine, or any wine, or anything but craft beer).  After I arrived back to the group, I realized it wasn’t holding a wine bottle that made me feel awkward; it was not holding a glass of wine.  So I pardoned myself and went to try and open the bottle.  When I yanked the corkscrew out, the center of the cork popped out, but nothing more.  So I sighed and stuck it in again, this time trying to yank it harder (****).  Instead of pulling the cork out, the entire bottle shot out in the opposite direction and smashed against the wall.  As all that nice red wine spilled out, the entire backyard population turned to stare.  They didn’t say anything, because let’s face it: hipsters are kind of creepy; and on top of that, they are always ready to be photographed looking bored.  Fortunately, I happened to shatter the bottle right next to a hose faucet, so I pretended to help clean up for a few minutes before grabbing a craft beer.

The last hour or so of the year was spent in the living room, where everyone went around and said 2 words (plus explanation) that they hoped would serve as symbols for the coming year.  After each person said their speech, a cheer went up, and everyone took a sip of some 18-year-old whiskey (that sounds a lot more old-timey than it actually was).  Then, as the countdown to the New Year began, “Instant Crush” played in the background; if that isn’t evidence that we were attending the most hipster of NYE parties, I don’t know what is.**

These are where the footnotes are hidden.  Sorry Potter; they were just too jumbled to stick anywhere else.  Also, this is my revenge for being set up on a blind date.

(*) Erin recently pointed out to me (whined) that she doesn’t know who people are, so here is a little explanation.  lokate went to high school with me and was two years older than me (until she turned 24, an age at which she deemed it appropriate to stop aging).  First I knew her as the Winkie (the Wild Cat school mascot; what a name) who liked Suzy’s brother; then she became my friend.  Like Erin, most of our hangouts revolve around yogurt.

*Not that it’s relevant, but my grandpa never became a lawyer.

(**) JZ is my British friend who did training with me in Japan.  Somehow we are still friends, despite the impossible odds.  I should also say one of my only British friends, because British friends are nearly impossible to make, apparently.

(***) Pantomimes are, from what I can tell; like musicals, but worse, and with more children in attendance.  And cross-dressers.  The cross-dressers are on stage, usually; not in attendance, but I guess I can’t be sure of that.

(*!) Suzy has been my friend since elementary school, and is coincidentally flying out in a few days.

(****) That’s what she said.

**This actually reminded me of another party, years earlier (and I believe involving a backyard bonfire), with this same group.  I was staying late to play DD (I have been known to refrain from imbibing, I’ll have you know***), and somehow the dregs of the party had moved to the living room.  I don’t remember if what happened next was discussed, or just happened, but as it was happening, there seemed to be an unspoken acknowledgement by all that we were to sit quietly in the dark contemplating the song “Knocked Up” by Kings of Leon.  I remember thinking, “Is this weird?  Does anybody else think it’s weird?  Do we all think it’s weird and we are Weird Chickening each other?  Even though it’s dark, should I close my eyes?  This is pretty good song; is this Kings of Leon?”  I actually can’t listen to that song when it’s not dark now.  Also, there are some weird parties in Orange County.

***Also, I just looked up when “Because of the Times” was released; it was 2007.  So yes; I was not DD by choice, but requirement.

Also, Erin, here is an awesome version of “Shock to Your System” that would be so much more awesome if Tegan WASN’T SINGING IN IT.  Sara, on the other hand, nails it.

“There are only two things I love in this world:

Everybody, and television.”*

I bet you’re thinking, “J-Nel, you’re blogging again!  So what are you putting off this time?”, to which I will reply, “How rude!”  The answer is sleep, and also essays.  But the joke is on you, because the essays aren’t due for another month, so I’m not even procrastinating!  Except everyone knows that once I go home on Dec. 22nd* (mark your calendars, mon freres), I will be doing nothing but playing with my dogs and eating sushi (except for the brief respite on Dec. 25th, when I will spend some time opening presents), so this is definitely a firm procrastination in action.  Your next question is probably: “Jillsef, which do you prefer, American sushi or Japanese sushi?”, to which I will reply, “I really don’t have time for these questions, I’m in the middle of writing a blog in order to put off writing an essay.”

*If you know who said this, you’re the winner of the Speciale del Dia.
**Christmas Adam is the big picnic day!  If you don’t know when Christmas Adam is, well; that’s a Christmas riddle to stick in your stocking!

You have really pushed your luck with all the questions, but I see your lips pursing with another “Wh-” about to spill out, so I will just anticipate your thought, and give you a list of what I am most looking forward to in the States (and let’s just pretend I said family and friends already and move on from there):

1. Luke

He’s not what you would call “conventionally handsome”, but I love him and his jowly smile.

2. Jack (also, since it’s in the picture anyway, a real bed)

Gratuitous Selfie

Jack is the looker of the two (by two, I mean Luke and Jack; not the two of us in the above picture.  Though that’s probably true as well).  He’s a little shit, but I like him anyway.

Also, I think it’s time we look into calling them by their continental names; Luc and Jacques.

3. Real deodorant

The UK is doing pretty well in a lot of areas–jay-walking, cool Islamic fashion, old folk production, dry shampoos–but they just don’t seem to know how to properly handle an armpit.  The common deodorant types I’ve found are either aerosol or roll-on.  This is a problem because A. Aerosol deodorant is pretty much equivalent to blowing wishes at your armpit and B. Roll-on deodorant gives you the feeling that an Italian Mastiff (see #1) has slathered your armpit with well-intentioned kisses.

4. Sushi.  It’s too damn expensive here, and the grocery store versions look like used erasers.  Also, California Rolls are only good in America.  I know I mentioned playing with dogs and eating sushi earlier; you might think I’m being redundant, but I just love them that much.

5. Everything being cheaper.  When the girls in  “West Side Story” sang, “Everything free in America”, they weren’t far off.  I want to go to there.

I’ll tell you what I’m not looking forward to: the flight that will lead me to all these joyous wonders.  I lost the last two Xanax that I had been preciously hoarding for this very trip, and that is so depressing.  Someone’s going to have a hard time on this flight, and I’m mainly referring to the person who will be in the seat next to me.

On to brighter and happier things!

On Friday the 13th, I happened to have an extra number added to my age.  I’m now the ripe old age of 24 (JK; though I did have some German girls who guessed that this was the age I was turning, which made me tear up a little in sheer joy).  But then I think, “Wait, how can I be 27?  What have I even done?”  And then I remembered: I studied abroad in Rome, I graduated from one of the top universities in the world (in one of the most impacted majors at the school), I’ve lived on 3 continents (fulfilling my dreams of working in Japan and going to school in the UK), been to 22 countries (with friends and alone; including traveling solo for 3 weeks through Vietnam), gone back to school to get my Masters (let’s hope that one works out), and have met a ton of amazing people along the way.  I’m pretty happy with what’s happened so far.

Speaking of, you know, living in the UK, I’d like to share some more tidbits about what I do here (not study-wise, as obviously no one cares about that).  I told you last time that I would go into more detail about differences between the UK and the US, and I’m making good on that covenant.  At good ol’ U of B, they have English seminars about once every two weeks, which I typically like to go to because I know hardly anything about English Literature, and I also feel like I’m participating by going.  Now, a few weeks ago, there was a visiting professor giving a lecture on something I thought I might enjoy.  I didn’t.  One thing they do differently here (and it really confuses me) is they tend to read these sorts of lectures straight from their notes (though apparently this is not done in every department, as my flatmate assured me).  Now, as I am not the strongest aural learner, I either have to be writing constantly as the person is talking or staring intently at the speaker so that I can focus on what they’re saying, and this is not easy to do when the speaker is disengaged the entire time.  Also, I’m pretty sure that even if I could focus, I wouldn’t have known what he was talking about.

However, after talking to other attendees, I realized the main thing that happened at the event was that the lecturer and the presenter were batting eyelashes at each other the whole time (apparently, they have a history…of some kind), while the presenter’s husband sat nearby bearing witness to the scene.  My flatmate, who happened to be sitting across the room and next to the husband (who is also a higher-up in the department), told me that the professor was not taking the cuckoldry passively–apparently, he leaned back in his chair at one point and just belched; no pretense or anything as he let it rip.  I guess that’s one way to mark your territory.

Anyway, the lecture finishes, and here comes the difference between the two nations: after the lectures, everyone goes out to the pub to discuss what we’ve learned (pretty sure that part has never happened while I’ve been around); this includes lecturers.  I get a bit thrown off by this, because I get nervous enough talking in class, and then they also go and call lecturers by their first names here (and refer to them as tutors at times), just to make things a bit more unsettling.  Anyway, I like going to pubs, so I convinced my classmate (who I had really talked to for the first time at the previous lecture) to go again, and we set off.  I also like to play a game called, “Let’s see how much I can embarrass myself”, but that will come a little later.

When we got to the place, it soon became clear that we might be the only postgrads in attendance, and definitely the only female students. Because we were the first to arrive, we got stuck at the very end of the table–and to my horror, the visiting lecturer sat down beside me.  Fortunately, he was talking to his colleagues, and I was able to talk to my friend and the lecturer we had earlier that day.  But as it usually happens, some people eventually got up to get seats, shuffling the attentions being paid, and I soon found myself being asked questions by the guest lecturer.  I knew he couldn’t possibly care about what I had to say, and he had come all this way to give a talk, so it was painfully obvious that I was going to have to bring this up in the conversation.  But I had nothing.  I figured I would work with that, so I basically said something along the lines of, “That was a really interesting talk; I didn’t really understand it, but I’m sure those who did probably enjoyed it more.”  (When I told this to my flatmate later, I’m pretty sure he actually slapped his hand to his head in disgust.)  I somehow managed to waddle out of dangerous territory and into patchy neutral ground after that, but it left me sweaty and jumpy (but so does telling my hairdresser what kind of haircut I want).  Thankfully, he left very soon after (strangely in tow of the husband and wife- I guess everything worked out well in the end; perhaps it was a burp of unity that the professor produced).  The rest of the night seemed to have gone pretty well (from my point, hilariously)–but again, it is a bit weird having lecturers who are around the same age while in these situations–you feel like you are amongst friends, but then every once in awhile you remember they are paid to pass judgment on you.  And then you spill wine all over the table and trip over a row of stools.

A few more meaty morsel before you go:

Living in my international style apartment, I get to have a lot of intercultural communication.  For example, while talking about having children, I told my Japanese flatmate I didn’t want sons, before changing my mind.  This is the conversation that followed:

Me: If I had sons, I could help shape them for the better.
Him: Boys can make money.
Me:…So can girls!
Him: (laughs)
Him: Oh.  Yes.

Also, this:

I recently read this statement on a link posted in my newsfeed:

You might be desperate to get home for Crimbo, but these gert lush pics of Briz will have you pining for the West Country by Boxing Day.

And I was like…Good Lord, is that English?  I thought maybe I had accidentally taken Xanax before reading it; I got the point, but the journey there felt really weird (but it would at least explain where the Xanax went).  And I looked up “gert” on my Mac, and what I got was this:

First one to explain this gets a juicy pinch on the cheek (you choose the cheek).

Also, for Hera Potter’s sake, I have cut down on the StarNotes, but only so that when she gets to this spot, it will serve as a reminder that she has a story she needs to finish telling me.

WTF? Why the face?

Oh boy!  I’ve decided to blog again and there’s just so many things to say; I don’t know where to begin! First, here’s a picture of a really sad box that I met in London!

Stuck in the middle.

Really, so many interesting things that have been happening lately, but that’s not what I’m going to talk about.  I’m going to talk about all the random things in my life because those are the most amusing things to me.  I have a feeling this is going to be a long post, so I think I will give the sections titles.  If a section looks boring; you’re probably right, and by all means, you should skip it.  If you’ve never read my blog before, you picked a weird day to start.  If I don’t stop the “if’s”, you’ll probably stop reading, so let’s jump in!

London and the Ja Ja Ja’s

The first thing I must, must, must discuss is the Scandinavian music show I went to in London a few weeks ago; the Ja Ja Ja Festival.  Now, unless you’ve been to this brand new festival or perhaps Roskilde Festival, then I’m guessing you haven’t been to a show crammed-full of Nordic musicians.  Which, let me assure you, means you are missing out.  Except for Mew, my beautiful Danes, all the bands were fronted by women (and if you know Mew, then you will know that all of them sound like they are fronted by women).  To be a Scandinavian woman musician, I’ve determined you need to adhere to the following guidelines:

1.  Have long, unkempt hair.

2.  Go on stage barefoot, or at least find yourself barefoot at some point in the show.

3. As long as your feet are free, so should you upper lady bits be as well.

4.  Dance like you are slowly having a stroke.

5.  Play at least 7 different instruments, or at least hold something that could either be a handmade maraca or a dead pigeon.

6.  Every once in awhile, swap singing with whispering, cooing, or whistling.

To be fair, #4 may be the only way to dance with that type of music; music that I would describe as a cross between what the Aurora Borealis would sound like if it made noise, and fairies laughing as they dance upon water.  The second act, múm, tending to get a bit darker in some of their songs, and at one point, the lead singer did this interpretive dance-y thing where she swung her arms around in jerky movements until they were wrapped around her neck, then jumped in the air as she pretended to break her neck, followed by her collapsing on the floor.  This in itself would be pretty unusual–now compound that with the knowledge that she did it EIGHT times in a row…on two separate occasions.  That’s a lot of interpretive suicidal dance moves.

^That is not the suicide dance.  That’s just regular stroke-y type dance done by Husky Rescue’s frontwoman.

Also, my favorite band ever played!  They were gorgeous, as always (this being the eighth time or so time I’ve seen them).  I was just a bit disappointed that they didn’t play much from their last album.

If you don’t know them, here’s a really crappy video to get you started–it’s one of their slower songs, which I’m mainly posting because it has the least amount of feedback.

I love that it ends on, “Into your…”.  Guess you’ll always be wondering…

Dying to be Blonde

Moving on!  This next bit comes with a bit of background info about yours truly.  I have two social fears (well, that are relevant to this story, at least) that I don’t usually go bragging about–one is my fear of making appointments; the other is going to places where I have to ask for something (particularly when I’m not sure what the answer is–i.e. going to McDonald’s and asking, “Can I have a Big Mac?” is not a fear, because the likelihood that I know the answer will be “yes” is about…oh,  99.8%).  In Japan, the fear was so strong that I ended up dying my own hair, which meant that my roots were bright orange followed with patches of white blonde.  You may be wondering, “Jill,* are you really that afraid of rejection?”  And the answer is I don’t know, probably…yes.  The next thing you’re probably wondering is, “Jill, did you forget where you were going this?”  See last answer.  Okay; I’m back on track. In the kitchen a couple of weeks ago, my Japanese flatmate asked me if I was going to be blonde again because I looked like プリン (pudding). It was then that I decided I could no longer put off making a hair appointment.

Pudding: Sadly, I knew immediately what he was talking about

かわいいプリン

Now for all you men out there (I don’t actually know of any guys who read my blog, now that I think about it…probably because I try to lure you in with stories of floor feces, and then trick you into reading about hair coloring): if you don’t know about the hair shaming that goes on at a salon, just imagine how embarrassed you feel when your dentist asks, “Are you flossing regularly?”  and then you turn bright red and say (in false indignity, if you’re anything like me), “Uh…yeah, of course,” and they’re like, “Regularly?”  And you’re like, “Define regularly.”  And then they’re like, “More than once a month?”  And you’re like, “Lunar month or calendar month?”  And then they just sigh and shake their head, which is pretty terrifying since they are usually wearing horrible green masks and caps (as well as those wonky goggles), so that they appear to be disappointed, tutting aliens.

Anyway.  I walk into the styling area, which was very intimidating because (as I am cheap and went to a city college school of beauty–here, Erin smugly nods) all the girls who work there have about 10 pounds of make-up on their face and perfectly coiffed hair, while I was wearing a shirt that looked slept in.  The receptionist brings around the girl who has been assigned to me; her gasp and heart-clutch gave me the impression that I may have waited a bit too long to redo my roots.**

After she sits me down in the chair, she asks me what I want done.  Now, an an attempt to rise above my social anxiety, I had practiced this bit in my head; that I want the roots bleached; preferably not too light, with a bit of toning to take out the brassiness.  What I say is, “Well…you know…I want the roots done.”  She asks me if I usually have toning done, and I said I DIDN’T KNOW.  There is absolutely no legitimate reason for saying this, except for the fact that I am an inexcusable coward. The girl disappears after muttering something about having to wait for the head hair teacher (head of hair teacher?), giving me plenty of time to stare at my reflection in indignation.

15 or so minutes had passed when I saw her across the room out of the corner of my eye, talking with another student.  I can tell from their body language that they are talking in hushed, horrified tones that clearly were a direct result of my being there.  The other hairdresser walked across the room, as if she is going to get something from another work station–but then she just kind of stopped about 5 feet behind me, hovering in an almost subtle attempt to get a handle on what her classmate has been cursed with, before slinking back to her friend to commiserate.  Now, I’m just going to fast-forward through all the dying bits and get to the point where she toned and washed my hair.  I want to describe this experience to you as accurately as possible…so…imagine that instead of a hairdresser, you had a griffin with a blood vengeance against you washing your hair (hopefully moving his hands like this in your imagination), and every once in awhile the aggrieved griffin would turn the water temperature to boil before aiming it in a continuous stream at one point on your head.  I usually am quite stoic (lie), but there was one point where I cried out three times in progressively louder exclamations, and I think that surprised her into being a little less talon-ish.   But when she was finished, and I was back in my chair, I saw that the work of the claw-hair wash was I had developed dreadlocks. As she struggled to rake a comb through the mess, she asked (in what I think she thought was a nonchalant tone), “So, does your hair normally get pretty tangled?”  I hadn’t seen hair like that since the last time I saw my stepbrother****, so I just said, “Not like this.”

Moral:  Would I go back again?  Heck yeah; it was 14 pounds.  Now, on to some observations!

A Series of Coincidences of Ridiculousness (probably the most skippable part)

For those of you who don’t know (and in case I haven’t mentioned it before), I have two classes a week; same as everyone else in my program.  Everyone meets at the same time on Tuesdays for the core class (though there are two different, simultaneous classes), and then everyone meets on Thursday at the same time for their pathways class–my class has about 7 people in it, which just makes it loads of fun (read: terrifyingly intimidating).  One of my Thursday classmates and I went to the tutor’s room, as she wrote in the syllabus that she would put the articles for the class outside her door.  We got there and discovered there were no articles and no papers.  So we decided to email her later, and headed to the library.  On the way there, my classmate, B,  mentioned the buildings are connected by a rooftop walkway, which I hadn’t known about.  Fast-forward to the library interior.  As I walk in, I noticed my other Thursday classmate, J1, walking towards the back of the library, but didn’t think much of it.  At this point, B and I split, as I needed to get some books, and he needed to see a librarian.  After I checked out my books, I ran into my other Thursday classmate, J2.  She informed me that the professor only left one copy of one article outside her room, and that she had taken it to make a copy.  She then ran into J1 (apparently right before I had seen him) and had passed it along to him.  Pleased, I asked if he was still there, but J2 said she had just seen him leave.  I decided to not procrastinate on getting the article, and headed back towards the tutor’s office.  Along the way, I found the rooftop path that B had mentioned, and made use of it; thinking how nice and pleasant it was that day.

The rooftop path didn’t go all the way to the building I needed, so I took the last staircase down–but when I tried to get into the building, the door was locked.  Just as I was struggling to open it, J1 happened to walk by at the same time–talk about killing two birds with one stone!  So he walked over and tried to open the door–but it wouldn’t budge.  We struggled for a both seconds on both sides of the glass door, and then he shrugged and walked away.  Honestly, that must be some kind of metaphor–the exact thing you need is right on the other side, but you are powerless to open it the door; therefore you must learn to overcome obstacles/learn how to break into buildings.  In annoyance, I had to walk all the way back and around the buildings to get to office.  There was a table at the bottom of the stairs, so I went back down to place the article on the flat surface so that I could take pictures–and just as I opened my iPad, my internet turned on and I got a message from J2 saying that J1 had emailed everyone a copy of the article.  Haha.

After Thursday’s class, B told me that the door used a card reader to open, so clearly, I’m a dummy.

We’re Not Living in America

When I announced to people that I was going to graduate school in the UK, the most common response I got was, “What!  I’m going to come visit you!”*****

When I announced that I was going to work in Japan (the first time), most people said, “Have fun!” ******

I was talking to a classmate recently, and she basically asked if people (specifically guys) treated me like a stereotypical idiot from America/tried to take advantage of my assumed idiocy.  I laughed for a good solid 5 minutes after hearing that (which was much too long; let me assure you), before telling her that no; no guys ever try to take advantage of my blonde Californian situation.  But maybe that’s because I don’t think of myself as blonde or typically Californian.

Anyway, here’s the situation that usually happens when I meet someone who is British.

Brit: Where are you from?
Me: California.  Specifically, Orange County.
Brit:  The O.C.!  Is it like the TV show?
Me: Uhhh…I don’t know.  I never watched it.  Maybe though.
Brit: You must really hate this weather.***

Just for comparison, here’s the situation that usually happened when I met Japanese people:

Japanese:  Excuse me, where are you from?
Me: The United States.  California.
Japanese:  Ohhhhh!  California is very nice!  You are from Los Angeles?
Me: No, Orange County.
Japanese:  Oh.  Sorry, I do not know Orange County.
Me:  It’s where Disneyland is.
Japanese:  Ohhhhhhhhhhhhhh!  So, what do you think of Japanese men?
::or::  Can you eat Japanese food?

There are so many other things I want to say about this topic, but I think I’m going to save it for another time, because there is one more thing I wanted to mention in this incredibly long post…

Halloween!

Some of you saw on Facebook that I dressed as Kyary Pamyu Pamyu for Halloween.  The reasons for this are severalfold.

1. The last weekend before I left Japan, I went to karaoke two nights in a row.  Both sessions featured American guys who had huge Kyary karaoke repertoires.  Therefore, despite never really hearing her music before that weekend (but knowing who she was, of course–you don’t spend 3 months with 18-year-old Japanese girls without finding out who she is), I had her (or rather, them) stuck in my head for the rest of my Japanese days.  I hadn’t really cared for her before, because I’m not the biggest fan of J-Pop, mainly because of the tendency for young girls to be both infantilized and sexualized before being just downright objectified (see: AKB48). Also, the music’s not very good.  But the thing about Kyary is that she does embody “kawaii” (that ideal cuteness), but she does not try to be sexy at all.  Frankly, she’s flat-out weird.  That’s what I love, and I can accept the idea of “entertainer” trumping “singer” in her case.

2. I love Halloween, but I am the absolute worst at coming up with costumes.  I don’t know if this is because I put too much pressure on myself, or if it’s because Halloween is when girls are supposed to get out the finest in their whore-drobe (and my whore-drobe is, well, pretty much non-existent), but I’m crap at it.  But then I remembered this time my old roommate K and I went to West Hollywood for a Halloween parade, where we ran into her freshman friends.  The girls were dressed as sister-wives, which was, as they put it, “the least sexiest thing” they could think of.  I thought that was brilliant, and I combined it with my feelings about Kyary Pamyu Pamyu being the least sexy pop star.

Actually, surprisingly sexy for sister-wives.

3.  It seemed like a pretty easy/cheap costume to make.

4.  One of my building managers told me that only 1 person had entered the building costume contest, so I knew if I did something unique like this, I would definitely win.

And I did.  Now I am the proud owner of “Zombie Apocalypse.”

Ummm…Creepy factor? Wasn’t going for that…

A Final Note 

Not that it has anything to do with anything (as this is accurate for most of what I write in relation to other things I write), but a Facebook ad recently showed me a picture of a woman struggling to hold on to a cat, titled with the questions, “Own a cat?  Still single?”  It seemed to me like it was saying, “Wait, even after owning a cat, you’re STILL single?”  So my first reaction was, “No, I don’t, and yes I am,” and my second thought was, “My God!  Are cats supposed to be the keys for getting boyfriends?”  Then I remembered all of those cat ladies with their loads of boyfriends, and it dawned on me, truly: cats are the answer.  And then the phrase “Curiosity killed the cat” came to my mind, and I realized “Curiosity” must have been the name of some jealous cat-lady’s boyfriend who decided he didn’t need anymore competition.  And that, my friends, is science.

StarNotes!  And yes, they are definitely out of order.

*Even though I dislike pretty much all forms of abbreviations of my name (Jill is super boring; Jilli is infantile [but allowed by family/friends who really love it]), I know must people really don’t want to start calling me Jillian.  Therefore in my imagined dialogue of my friend-reader, I will allow the nickname.

**Of course I’m exaggerating, but she definitely looked displeased to have gotten me.

***** Followed by, “I’m so jealous/I wish I was as adventurous as you/You’re leaving again?”

******Usually followed by, “When are you coming back?”  Japan is so undervalued.

***If more people watched “Arrested Development,” then I could say that the O.C. (don’t call it that) is in fact very similar to its TV portrayal.

**** Not me.  Stepbrother.  “Gotta lock it up!”  Fortunately, I did not lock mine up.

 

Again, if you’ve made it this far, remember: I love you best.

The TAT of J.M.N.

After all the weirdly difficult and tricky things that have happened lately, I was thinking of titling this blog, “The Trials and Tribulations of Jillian M. Nelson,” but that was too long, so I decided on  “The T.A.T. of J.M.N.” because I wanted to look classy.  Nothing classier than initial TATs. *1*

Last time we talked screen to screen, I told tales of the tearful trail that lead me to me current location, Denmark (Street.  I hope that there were two seconds where you read that and thought, “Wait, I thought she was in England?”  And hopefully you asked in the high-pitched voice of Jim Gaffigan).  I don’t think I even mentioned how my university somehow forgot to enroll me in any classes besides the core module.  Still, I had a place to live, which meant I could finally breathe easy.

So for all of 8 days, my woes went away.  And that, my friends, is how long it took for the unspeakable to happen.

Which I will now type, because it is unspeakable.

Someone.

POOPED.

On.  The.  FLOOR.

(The horror!  The horror!)

Do you know what that’s like?  To walk into a bathroom and see this…this ABOMINATION (of-bum-ination) waiting for you?  And then it sinks in that 1.) Finder’s Cleaners and 2.) You’re down for “Spare Loo” duty on the rota that week, so you’re basically screwed as designated pooper-scooper?  Tell me, has that happened to you?  Fingers were pointed; tears were shed (mostly because I was laughing so hard).  But then, have you had insult added to injury after you do a superstar clean-up job, because someone decided to repay you by drinking all your beer?*  To this very day, the culprit is still on the loose (I mean, come on–who is going to say, “Okay guys, ya caught me; it was I who pooped and ran, then drank all your beer”), but one thing is certain– I’ll never look at my flatmates the same.

The crazy thing is, I’d like to say this was the first time this has happened to me**, but there was one day when I was in high school when my mom dragged all the kids still living in the house to the bathroom, where she pointed to the ground and cried, “WHO DID THIS?”  The same person that I believe responsible for this particular floor-foul also drank my chocolate stout, so talk about connections!  I mean, sure; the events were about 10 years apart, but still.  Circle of life.***

Anyway, enough potty talk.  Sometimes nice things happen–I had my first visitor to Bristol!  Okay; it was JZ, so maybe it’s more like, “Sometimes not so bad things happen.”  (JK, JZ.  Who I know never reads my blog, as he just found out what blogs were last week).  But as a result, we did sight-see-y things, which means you get these pictures!  Hurrah!

Oo!

Ah!

Ah!

わ〜！

Isn’t Bristol cute?

Now, if you are wondering what I actually am doing in Bristol besides cleaning up bathrooms and having my beer stolen, I’m getting my MA!  And if from there you are wondering what a typical school day looks like for me, let me give you a little sample, straight from today’s events:

-Get to class.  Open bottle of sparkling water, which explodes.  Wouldn’t be so bad if the EXACT SAME THING hadn’t happened the week before.  Inward panic that my new nickname will be “American Girl Who Can’t Figure Water Out.”  Though if anyone calls me that, I will simply call them, “Person Who Can’t Make Short and Efficient Nicknames.”****

-Stomach growls loudly, due to decision to eat only vegetables*.* for lunch.

-Get cold, so try to put on jacket, but can’t figure out sleeve.  Finally get sleeve to cooperate; try to put in on in a hurry so my nickname doesn’t become “American Girl Who Can’t Figure Water or Jackets Out,” but jacket is vintage*!* and delicate, and inside lining rips.  Loudly.  Don’t even try to imagine what new nickname could be.

-Go home and eat more vegetables. *&*

*1* I also considered “Operation Title: Trials and Tribulations”, with the abbreviation being “O TIT: TAT,” but there is a level to how ridiculous I will go.

*This happened about 4 days later, so I gueeeeess it may not have been connected.  But still!  3 beers!  Out of 4!

**Actually, I’d prefer to say this has never happened to me, but what’s done is done.

***While poo on the floor followed by someone drinking all your beer may not be what the “Lion King” song is about, the truth is we can never really know.

****If you’re really quick, you’ve already realized that those are both accurate nicknames for J.M.N. by own logic.

*.* And cheese.

*!* Armani…sigh.

*&* AKA Cheese.

Sorry for all the asterisks, but as it has been so cloudy, I haven’t seen many stars lately; therefore I wanted to make up for it.  Now stop reading my blog and go do something productive with your life!

Hide yo’ kids, hide yo’ wives…

And hide yo’ husbands, cuz I’m writing all my blogs about them (no, jk; but I was trying to fit in a way that you could still sing it.  This blog is still all about me).

Ohhhhh my.  Hello friends.  It’s been awhile.  I see you’ve been growing out your beard.  It doesn’t suit you; get rid of it.  Also, some of you might have forgotten that I exist, as I tend to go in and out of people’s existence  (obviously I don’t mean in single instances; I’m not a ghost.  Clearly this is in reference to the multiple times I enter and leave countries).

Now that that’s done with, let’s talk Bristol!

Here’s an unrelated shot of my street for all those who are bored with words.

As some of you know, I’ve been places.  A lot of places.  This year.  Last year.  Possibly the year before, but my memory has started to fade, and checking my passport would require me to move my arm two inches to open my drawer, and I am actually that lazy.  The point is, I have been a lot of places, and yet Bristol was by far the hardest one to get to in all of my experiences.

Let me give you a little insight into my timeline from the past few months.

Aug. 9: (In Vietnam, prior to returning to Japan) Find out student accommodation filled up, and thanks to an acknowledged system glitch on the university’s end, I must begin searching in panic for private housing.

Aug. 20: Return to America!

Aug. 21: Find out the visa application is a bit more complicated then I expected, and $500 more expensive than I expected (okay, maybe $300 more than I reasonably expected).

Aug. 23: Told by the school that I need the loan letter from the university to prove that I have enough funds to attend school, and once I finish the credit checks, it will take 4-5 days to arrive.  When it does, I can send in my visa application. No problem, I do the checks, and e-mail the representative back to let her know I’ve finished, and to e-mail in the case that there was something else that needed to be done.

Aug. 29:  There was something else that needed to be done.  After a (loud) audible groan, I finish these as well and prepare to wait another 4-5 days to send off my visa application.

Sept. THIRTEEN:  Get letter.  Immediately send application off.  Since it is Friday, and the consulate is closed on the weekends, I arrange for the app to get there Monday morning.  Pay $150 to get a response within 48 hours.  Double check that nothing is forgotten, as everything has to be done just so for me to leave by the following Saturday.  Also, would hate to pay $650 to be rejected.

Sept. 16: Get e-mail saying application has arrived and is being processed, but is missing a prepaid, printed return slip (I had included a prepaid written one for next day delivery), and while they will continue processing, they will not be able to conclude until after they receive an electronic return slip.  Immediately send email with slip.

Sept. 17:  Approved!  Hurrah!  My heart leaps for joy as I read, “If you included a return shipping waybill when you sent your application to us, your package will normally be shipped within 24 hours.”  Then it sinks as I read, “If you provided a return shipping waybill after sending in your application, your package may take up to 72 hours to ship from receipt of this e-mail.”  Which would mean that my visa could arrive anytime at the latest…on Saturday.  Day I want to leave.

Sept. 19:  Receive email that visa has been shipped.  With tears of relief, I book a plane ticket for Saturday.

Sept. 19: Confirmation email that I have booked flight through Faregeek.  See this in email: “Although your reservation is confirmed, it will need to be verified before ticketed and sent out, at which point they may request a credit card authorization form. In an unlikely event, if your tickets cannot be processed for any reason you will be notified via email or by telephone and your payment will NOT be processed.”  Errr…what?  Check credit statement.  No sudden $1,300 charge.  Read horrible reviews about Faregeek.  Freak out.  Use confirmation number on email to check airline website for confirmation; can’t confirm.  Call airline; no record of my booking.  Email website, they promise to send an e-ticket soon.

Sept. 20: Still no e-ticket, but credit payment has been made.  Call airline again; told the numbers on confirmation are never used by airline.  Try calling company; direct to voicemail.  E-mail company again.  They swear everything is fine.  I beg for them to confirm somehow.  Try to call airlines, but can’t get through.

Sept. 21: No e-ticket, but e-mail from Faregeek tells me to use a different number to check with airlines.  I do, and they confirm I am scheduled for flight that day.  Sigh in relief.  Take a bunch of Xanax, get on plane.  Relatively less stressed after that.

Sept. 22: Arrive in UK; find out airlines lost both of my checked bags.  Arrive at hostel.  Live in capsule-style bed until Thursday.

Sept. 26: Finally get university housing (after going in to the accommodation office everyday since arriving).  Move in.

Sept. 27: Get sick.  Haha.

Oh yeah; did I mention that all the women’s toilets broke one day at the hostel?

Looking back on all that, I feel some phantom stress.  And this is the condensed version (though my regular readers, i.e. real friends, are probably thinking, “There is no such thing as a condensed version when it comes to you, J-dawg,” which I concede.  Also, don’t call me J-dawg in your thoughts; that’s weird).  I feel like I need nap after writing that.  So I might just leave you with this nice story of the time I was still staying in the hostel, and thus spending a lot of time on buses.

My bed.

What my hostel space looked like. Cute, but cramped.

There was this woman next to me at the bus stop who asked me if I smoked; I replied in the negative as I sat down.  I happened to be quite hungry, so I pulled out the rest of my onion and cheese sandwich, or as I like to call it, the “I’m confident I’m going home alone” sandwich.  The woman said, “Oh, a sandwich; that’s what I’d really fancy now.  Got any more of that?”  I looked down on my snack; I’d already torn the crust off (because I like to get the less than savory bits over with first), and since it was the least nutritious white bread stuff, my fingerprints were already leaving deep imprints in the bread, so I felt a bit weird offering it.

A middle aged couple came up to check the bus times; the woman asked the same “do you smoke” question, to which the woman-half of the couple replied, “no, sorry; I don’t have any vices,” to which I replied in my head, “Now that’s just an outright lie.”  I also thought it was pretty faux noble of the lady to act like she was all high and mighty and non-smoky.  Just say, “Sorry love,” like all the rest of the British do; pretending they have love for strangers when clearly; they all hate public (or private) displays of affection.  Actually, now that I think of it, I haven’t seen a single bit of public affection besides a hug, which is quite wonderful, really.  The last thing you want is to see strangers making out and picturing all their horrifying British teeth hiding behind their lips.

Anyway, the faux-no (as I called her in my head) wandered to the side, and I continued to eat my sandwich next to the smoke hungry lady.  Then, without any preamble, she ripped an incredibly juicy, unashamed fart right on the bench next to me.  I’m not usually squeamish about this type of thing, but this one I felt infiltrated my very sandwich.  Now every time I think of my Bristol hostel days, I can’t help but thinking of that lady and my polluted sandwich.  I won’t ever be able to eat a cheese and onion sandwich again (actually, I really probably shouldn’t anyway).

Also, for those of you who are like, “Shouldn’t your blogs be a little better edited/written (or just mature) now that you’re in grad school, I will reply…with a smile on my lips and a wink in my eye.

Which is face language for, “No way, Jorge.”

And now, a picture!

Vietnam Finale: H-Towns

After my easy sleep trip to Nha Trang, I felt pretty confident in my ability to rock the night bus (rock as in rocking a baby to sleep, as it so happens). But after days of swimming in a sea that became increasingly dirty, a huge tragedy occurred: I developed an ear infection. In regards to the bus ride, this meant that no matter which way I moved my head, I was in pain: compounded by the fact that I was on the bottom level that was too short for me to sit up in (and just for fun, my chair was broken and couldn’t move into an upright position).

Basically, by the time I arrived in Hoi An, I was straight up miserable. Then, the hotel said check-in didn’t open until 12:30, and considering it was 7:30 am when I arrived…well, things weren’t looking up. Fortunately, the lobby had many chairs available for collapsing in, so I took advantage of that. The guy behind me on the bus happened to be staying at the same hostel, so when I had gathered enough energy, we headed off in search of a street breakfast. Vietnam has many sidewalk entrepreneurs, some of whom set up plastic tables and chairs (of a size usually intended for toddlers in America) and serve you their specialty for a price usually under $2. The one we found was $1 (or $1.50 for massive meat portion), and it was fantastic. This trip, I have eaten much more street food then last year, and considering last time i was disgustingly sick twice; I guess I should have been doing it more back then.

When we returned to the hotel, I once again collapsed in the lobby chair, and soon found myself surrounded by Americans (i.e. 2 besides myself). One girl kind of just appeared and started talking to me; I mentioned I was going to take the shuttle to town, and she said she might do that as well; once we got to town, we never split up, and we ended up sticking together for the rest of my trip. That’s another funny thing about traveling solo– sometimes when you meet people, you stay together without ever really acknowledging that you are staying together. After hanging around for the the whole morning together, I was in the dressing room and wanted to call out to her for her opinion when I realized I didn’t know her name; we had never actually introduced ourselves (hereby referred to as N). Best excuse for forgetting someone’s name is to never actually hear it in the first place.

At least ours didn’t look as badly as these guys…

Then together, we ended up being pressured into getting the specialty of Hoi An- tailor made clothes. I had actually researched the different shops, and had a solid idea of where I wanted to go. But when the women start coming up and persuading you to come into their store…well, your intentions go out the window. Both of us ended up ordering winter coats, and after two fittings (the second of which had to be the last due to our departure date), we both found ourselves a bit disappointed. The sleeves on mine were about an inch too short, and the jacket was a bit tight– which would be fine if it weren’t a winter coat meant for layering. Still, I don’t think I regret doing it, because I would have left wondering what could have been.

Despite the tailoring let-down, Hoi An ended up being one of of my favorite places, partly due to the group that built up during our time there. The first night in Hoi An, a huge drunken birthday party ended in the hostel corridor outside my room around 4 in the morning; even spilling into our room at one point.   Despite nothing being quite as exciting as a random drunk dude walking into your room and saying, “What are you guys doing?;” I joined N in switching rooms, and (besides my bed having a large patch of black mold above it) was all the better for it.  We were joined in the new room by 4 more Brit girls; I have since decided that Welsh is my new favorite accent because it just sounds so happy.  Anyway, Hoi An was very idyllic, with the best weather, beaches, and biking that I had seen yet in Vietnam.

After shoving our winter coats into backpacks clearly intended for summer travels, N and I were joined by E (or Harry Potter, as he so unfortunately gets called) on the way to Hue (that’s a pun for Hera Potter to make).  We had heard (probably all from seat61.com, a very useful traveling site) that the train to Hue was one of the most scenic routes in S.E. Asia, so we took a break from the usual bus rides to try it out.  We tried to make reservations for the right side of the train, but were told we couldn’t select our seats, so we left it to chance.  When the time finally came, we first had to take a rented car full of 80s tunes to the station; after crossing the most cluttered tracks in the world, we found our train car to be of the very…old variety, full of enthusiastic Vietnamese.  There was one old man who didn’t appear too enthusiastic, and he happened to hold the ticket to the seat next to mine.  I sat down in some disappointment, but cheered up once I realized I was still in a window seat on the right side of the train.  Until the train started, and I realized our car was facing backwards.  Ah, well.  On the plus side, the man next to me did cheer up a bit; he asked me some questions (or rather, he mumbled something that might have been English or Vietnamese or even French; I just answered based on the questions I assumed he might be asking).  Then he took a picture of me looking pensively out the window (which of course I knew he was taking, and posed pensively as a reaction).

Hue itself turned out to be a bit lackluster, except for two situations both involving food.  The first occurred on the first night out, and it might serve as dark humor to remind wanderlusts out there that sometimes travel has its downsides.   The three of us went to eat at a seafood restaurant by the river, since there were a lot of cool stalls lit up nicely and we hadn’t eaten well on the train (also, when traveling, I generally avoid telling people that I dislike seafood, since there are already a lot of picky eaters as it is).  So our food had arrived when I realized my stomach was hurting (okay, let’s be honest, it had been hurting for awhile), and I excused myself to find a bathroom.  I had to wander down the market before finding what amounts to a pay-port-a-potty.  The place was disgusting and horrendously hot, but I was at least thankful for my foresight to bring even the small amount of tissues that I had.  But as I left, I realized in horror that there was no place for hand washing.  I’m not OCD about many things, but anyone who has seen me pet my dogs and immediately wash my hands after knows I like my digital hygiene.  I tried to swallow my disgust and figured that at least they use chopsticks in Vietnam, so I could keep far away from my food.  When I returned, I sat down and saw my order–what I thought were soft Vietnamese pancakes were more like hard-shell tacos.  I kept trying to get at them with my chopsticks, even stabbing at them, but the shape and texture created a struggle.  E saw my situation and just said, “Hands.”  One word made the blood drain from my face and caused my appetite to disappear, but I put on a brave front and ordered a second beer, hoping the alcohol might kill whatever germs lay festering in my stomach.

The second Hue event was far less gruesome.  N and I went off the next day to a nearby market.  I wanted to try some of the food at one of the stalls, but N,  being a gluten-sensitive pescetarian (as well as full of jackfruit), decided to just sit with me.  Still, the lady excitedly ushered us in, and soon the women around us were trying to have us buy things; one woman even brought us drinks without even asking us first.  And the woman whose stall I sat at just brought me a dish without asking as well.  Then she brought another.  And another.  Often, street stalls in Vietnam specialize in just one dish, which I had thought was the case here.  But clearly, this woman was going to keep stuffing food down my throat until I very forcibly said no (which I did with a lot of waving of the arms).  So her happy demeanor turned serious, and she began counting plates–and I began to worry about the damage done, wondering if I had enough money.  The cost turned out to be 250,000 dong*, which is around $12.  In Japan, you might think this quite a cheap meal, but in Vietnam, I could have easily eaten for 2 days at that price.  I paid in shock (or rather, I borrowed money from N in shock), but I later laughed as I thought about how gleeful that woman must have been when I walked into her life that day.

That night, we hopped on another night bus bound for the capital city Hanoi.  The bus seemed nicer than other night buses, but my enthusiasm drained as the conductor said, “Oh, three people?  This way,” and proceeded to lead us to the back three seats; the only ones all jammed in together.  I unfortunately had been standing in the middle, and naturally got stuck with the middle seat.  This made me a little sad as it meant 1.) I had no view and 2.) I had to be careful not to move around too much, which requires a concentrated effort on my part.  But before the sleep proceedings even took place, we braked (breaked?) at a rest stop that had a fair amount of cafeteria food.  The selection didn’t look too bad, but I decided to play it safe with the simplest thing I could find on the menu: fried chicken.  This is what I got.

See that meat in the top left?

After I pulled off the “fried” part, which was basically about an inch thick skin, I was left with that picturesque piece of meat.  N, already not a meat fan, tried not to gag or make too many penile comments.  The laconic Lithuanian looked at it and firmly said, “Don’t eat that.”  Fortunately, I was still pretty full from my humongous market lunch, so I was able to take that advice without much concern.  I even tried giving the skin to a beggar dog, but even he was like, “Nah man, that’s alright.”

When we arrived at Hanoi, it was pouring rain, but we weren’t too concerned.  After N and I found a hotel and the rain lightened up, we wandered around until check-in time.  After resting a bit, we discussed going out to find food; only when we went downstairs, we found the streets flooded up to the knees.  Not ideal for sight-seeing, and not particularly good for participating in blog-worthy activities.

We were, however, able to book a two-day tour for Ha Long Bay the next day, which I had been looking forward to for awhile.  The weather wasn’t great, but it wasn’t raining, and our boat seemed secure enough.  But it was a little strange that the first thing they did when we got on the boat was sit all of us (about 20 people) around one long table and served us lunch.  It was one of those trips where you got to know everyone pretty fast, and we had a pretty international group–American, Canadian, Chinese, French, Danish, Argentinian, Chilean, British…maybe even more that I’m forgetting.  The first lunch wasn’t the quickest bonding activity, as everyone did the awkward introductions** that you get so used to traveling, but after a cave tour and a quick kayaking jaunt, the boat anchored, and the tour guide announced we could go swimming.  People tentatively made their way in (okay, I did, and then one person briefly followed).  But then the tour guide looked at one passenger and said, “You can jump off the side, you know.”  We didn’t know.  But I can assure you, we took advantage of the invitation, and that’s when best friends were born.  How could not happen after organizing synchronized jumps off of a 3-story junk?

That night, we even joined up with another boat’s drinking game (similar to Grand Poobah, for those who have played it, only much sloppier).  I wasn’t drinking, so I found the game a little more tedious than some of the others–but one of my favorite moments was when the Canadian girl from our boat turned to me and said, “I have to go to the bathroom.”  She then went to the ledge of the boat (where people previously jumped off of), and turned back to me to ask, “Do you think it’s okay if I just go here?”  I didn’t quite know what to say, but then, I don’t think she cared.  Maybe she thought she was pretty good at peeing standing up, and would easily clear the side of the boat (she wasn’t, and she didn’t).  Even after the entire rest of the boat realized what she was doing and began making comments, she still wasn’t bothered.  She finished up, then immediately sauntered over and sat on the lap of the guy she had hooked up with the week before.

Selfie!

The next day, the weather was much better, and a few of us woke early for some pre-breakfast boat ledge jumps.  The rest of the tour was mostly a ride back into the dock, but it was a beautiful day for it.  After an overly long lunch trip in Ha Long City, we finally made it back to Hanoi.

The rest of the trip passed fairly quickly.  I did a photo tour of the city on my own, since I really hadn’t had much solo time since meeting people in Hoi An.  It was good to wander, but it was so damn hot.  Even in the evening, when N and I went to the night market, it was almost suffocating with people and humidity.  For the first time, I really felt ready for the end of my trip to come, though I was a bit shocked when it actually came sooner than I thought (see: “I’ve made a huge mistake“).  But on the last afternoon, I randomly happened to run into E (who had booked a different hostel from us in the city) outside of my hotel.  We went to get boba, and I was delighted when once again, someone on staff pointed at him and said, “Same same Harry Potter!”  Hilarious.  You could say it was almost…magical.

I then spent the next 24 hours getting back to Japan (3 flights + 6 hours in-between each, with a couple of hours of delay thrown in for fun), but this time I didn’t get a free pass into China.  To be honest, I probably would have been too tired for it.  Overall, though, I feel like my 3 weeks in Vietnam were pretty successful.  I met a lot of cool people, ate a bunch of weird food, and didn’t throw up once (vast improvement from last year).  Next month’s adventures should be fairly entertaining as well, I imagine (should the country ever decide to let me in).

*Yes, dong is the real name of the currency.  And no, I actually made surprisingly few jokes about it.

**Examples:  Where are you from?  Where have you been?  Where are you going?  Are you traveling alone?  Where are you staying?  What have you eaten?

P.S.  One of my friends (*cough* Erin *cough*) told me my blogs were a bit long and sometimes disjointed.  Just so it’s clear; I’m very lazy, and often write these blogs in bits and pieces, so I’m sorry about that.  Also, I’m fine with this not being a blurb blog, but for you who tough it out and make it to the end: good show, ol’ chaps; and of course, you can come claim those kisses I always promise you for sticking it out.  :*

In Osaka I saw you last…

So, it’s my last day in Japan. This thought has come up 4 times in my life, and this time is definitely the least emotionally taxing, but that’s probably because I’m already focused on my next destination. But that’s not to say this time around hasn’t been great; it’s been fabulous. Especially compared to when i left last year as an emotional wreck, I feel like this time was almost too easy. This time around, my job and my girls was/were so much fun, travel was great, and everyone has been so generous to me; this past week especially.

Now, some highlights!

I finally made it to Osaka (though not to Kobe…sigh). I actually flew into Osaka and had the intention of visiting there last year after my travels, but the family friend I was staying with had no intention of letting me. This year, I met up with my friend Haruka who I met last year while volunteering in Ishinomaki. I remembered she had told me she kind of lived near Osaka, but it turns out she was especially close because she was visiting her grandma for Obon. She brought her sister, a high school student who had also recently been to Vietnam, and we went to a pasture on Mt. Rokko. Apparently, their grandmother gave them money to treat me, and we did everything – made (and most certainly ate) ice cream, fashioned a toy sheep out of wool (or tried, as the lady leading the craft pretty much did the whole thing for us), which we named Debu-chan and Chubby (same meaning), and ate kakigori (Japanese shaved ice). Oh, and of course we looked at animals. This year I was briefly introduced to the horrifying noise goats make when they cry (thanks to Taylor Swift), but it was still very shocking to hear it in person. Also, it was a good opportunity for me to speak Japanese, as Haruka is patient and non-judgemental, and her sister didn’t want to speak English; though she told me she could understand most of what we said when we did.

On Friday, i met up with some former students for sweets and purikura pictures. I felt bad because Japanese girls always make such an effort to look cute, and considering I had taken the night bus that and had been living out of a backpack for nearly a month, lets just say I didn’t quite live up to those standards. But being sweet Japanese girls, they of course were very polite about it. That night, I stayed with Kayo, and we had a fantastic girls night that included abundant amounts of music, girl talk, and wine. Then, on Saturday, prior to all-night karaoke-ing, Kayo and I watched a japanese horror show featuring ghost story clips about 3 minutes long. From my observations, japanese scary stories seem to involve people staring over their shoulders as a ghost (usually a women with long hair concealing her face) slowly approaches them. There is plenty of sweating and groaning, but mostly it seems to be a big staring contest, with the losers being the living. Actually, it makes me think I’d be pretty confident if I met a ghost, because I know all they’re going to do is try and force eye contact with me. Which I guess is a little awkward, but hardly deadly.

Speaking of awkward, a secret fear of my finally took place the other day: I was trapped inside the train station without enough money on my IC train pass, as well as without money on my person. But I was in Shibuya, and i had my American debit and credit cards, so I just figured I would find a conbini* and Withdraw money. First part of the plan was successful when I came upon a Newdays. Second part? Not so much. Stuck my first card in. Rejected. Stuck it in a different direction. Rejected. Tried the other card. Rejected. Sweat starts to bead on my brow at this point. Tried the other side. Heart sinks as the card is spit out. I wandered around in search of another conbini, only to be disappointed.

I went back to the fare adjuster machine to check what my actual shortage was. The damage? 10 yen. I had 5. A shortage the equivalent of a nickel was leaving me stranded on the wrong side of the gate. I scanned the floors for some change, but luck was not to be on my side. I was going to have to ask for money. I stalked the fare adjuster machines, trying to build up my begging skills in Japanese. But as each commuter came up to correct their fare, I tried to imagine their reaction to this random white girl coming up and clutching at their sympathies to eek out 5 yen. I couldn’t do it. I found another white girl instead; she was bemused, but forthcoming with the change. Thus ended my trial beggarship. It was a bizarre and humbling experience; everyone should try it out sometime. I rewarded myself with 4 plates of aburi salmon at my new favorite kaitensushi place, uobei, that my coworker’s cousin introduced us to on a sushi Wednesday. And don’t even ask me how many favorite sushi places I have; it’s too ridiculous to count.

That evening, we celebrated Kelly’s birthday party with Reuben sandwiches and two rounds of karaoke. Okay, so dinner featured more than just those sandwiches, but I kept daring Alex’s friend Hide to go around to other tables and steal their Reuben’s (don’t worry, it was a private party at the restaurant). He would giggle and insist he couldnt, but i promised margarita compensation whenever he completed a challenge (of course, it being nomihodai,* that didn’t really matter). The evening as a whole was quite hilarious, though I felt bad when I told Carissa I was going away, to her surprise (though Kelly insists we talked about it, so maybe the surprise was more from being caught off guard by me coming and going so quickly).

My last full day I spent first having awesome shabu shabu with Rachael C, followed by a “mama’s meal” dinner with Nanako and her family. Hanging out with a friend without feeling the need to do anything special, or any last minute triumphant celebration, really was the best course of action for this period. I’ve gotten a bit emotionally exhausted by the going away shenanigans, and I’m glad this time was peaceful. Though if you are reading this and didn’t realize I was going away today, I apologize, and I promise you can be first on the list to hang out when I return. There were a lot of people that I didn’t get a chance to meet with, but it’s something to look forward to next time.

Anyway, as a last day treat, I have written down a collection of fantastic quotes I’ve heard this week (many from Kayo, who is hilarious because like the honey badger, she does what she wants).

Me: He’s gorgeous
Kayo: His character? His opinion?
Me: …His face.

Kayo, talking about Japanese girls who target foreign guys: Do you know this kind of woman? This bitch?
Ten she taught me this phrase:
Shirigaaru- kind of bitch (slutty for white people)

Kayo, showing me a picture: Don’t you like him?
Me: Naw, he’s not my type.
K: Oh, well, he’s completely gay.
Me: Then he’s definitely not my type.
K: I mean, in the face.

Kayo, about the teacher i replaced: Everyone says he is good looking in Japan.
Me: Everyone? Did you show his picture to people?
K: No, I mean in my head.

K, showing me another picture: He is playboy in Japan. This is bitch. She is korean. They are couple. They are my friends.

Uri: Oasis is the most British thing I can think of.
M: What about the monarchy?
U: Naw. But maybe the queen.

Ryan: I’m afraid of birds. (Is this a common fear? I feel like I’m hearing it a lot lately)
Alex: Who isn’t afraid of bears?(Then, after correction) Why are you afraid of birds?
Ryan: Because they don’t have arms.
Alex: Neither do paraplegics.
Ryan: Yeah, and they’re pretty scary too.

Alex: Did you know if you add sugar to drinks, it makes them sweeter?

Alex: I’m double-fisting right now.
Me: sings “Double fisting” to the tune of “Love Rollercoaster”
Alex: You make it sound weird.
Me: Yeah, cause double fisting doesn’t sound weird in the first place.

*nomihodai: all you can drink

“I’ve made a huge mistake.”

 

So for those of you who want to do your own wild and wacky travel in the future, a word of advice: check your itinerary carefully.  I just realized tomorrow is my last day in Vietnam, as my plane for Japan leaves on Tuesday just before 2 am.  So all the things I was saving for my return trip to Saigon…well, I’m going to have come back if I want to see them.

Plus side!  More time in Osaka and Kobe.